


If God is Love, then You are False

by Quinara



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M, Poetry, Sestina, season: a3, season: a4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-24
Updated: 2010-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:50:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinara/pseuds/Quinara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley writes about Lilah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If God is Love, then You are False

Your face to me is like a graven image:  
A set of curves I should not treasure,  
Sharp bones that have articulated many times  
Your wish to see my old friends dead.  
Yet when you laugh I cannot look away  
And all I’ve left’s the idol that is you.

I don’t know what I mean to you.  
Perhaps you wish to make me in your image  
And work on me until you’ve carved away  
All that I was and left your lust for treasure.  
I know you want all I was dead,  
Because of course you’ve told me many times.

Oh, God, I’ve seen your skin so many times  
(Clean planes that, Lilah, don’t become you).  
No matter if I dream you’re dead  
I cannot shake the smiling image  
I’ve locked in my mind, a treasure  
I’m ashamed of, hidden deep away.

I think I wish you’d go away –  
I’ve told you so uncounted times.  
But like a jackdaw with her treasure,  
You won’t let me get that far from you.  
Why, when you distort me to a mirror image,  
Whole not broken, live not dead?

It’s not been long since I was left for dead.  
If all my body’s blood had bled away,  
Would that dry corpse have painted true an image  
Of my life? The memories fill my dreams sometimes;  
I wake up dying in your arms. Why is it you  
Alone who treats my life like some strange treasure?

For after all that is the truth of treasure:  
You only find it after someone’s dead.  
How many people died so you  
And I could sculpt this thing between us, chip away  
The burrs and then make prayer ten times  
Too few ‘fore heresy’s bright image?

However many, it’s this image that I’ll treasure,  
Recall a thousand times till one of us is dead,  
When torn away I’ll finally be free of you.


End file.
